


Long Live the Fucking King

by Moirae (TigerDragon), TiaNadiezja



Series: No Chance in Hell [1]
Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-09
Updated: 2015-12-09
Packaged: 2018-05-05 19:40:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5387858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TigerDragon/pseuds/Moirae, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TiaNadiezja/pseuds/TiaNadiezja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The end of one era, and the start of another. After Vince McMahon steps down, how does WWE change?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Old Man (December 1, 2015, Orlando)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On Reality. This is not a work of fanfiction, except for all the ways it is. This is not really real-person fiction, either, or alternate history. It is none of those things, and all of those things, because of the strange and unique nature of professional wrestling - the way reality meshes with fiction, the way characters and performers intertwine until sometimes one wonders if even he knows where Triple H ends and Paul Levesque begins.
> 
> The story here is based on real people. It's not set in the fictional universe in the ring where Kane is a demon capable of summoning up fire and Vince McMahon is a heartless billionaire executive bent on world domination. Our Kane is an insurance salesman and professional actor and athlete; our Vince McMahon... still probably a heartless billionaire executive bent on world domination.
> 
> But the story is about, at its core, storytelling. It's about business. I have little desire to dig, tabloid-style, into the personal lives of people who already give so much of those lives to entertain me, to add a little wonder to my own life. So many of the relationships seen here will be fictional. If a relationship hasn't shown up on Breaking Ground (which I watch religiously) or Total Divas (which I avoid equally religiously), if it's not common, completely public knowledge, then anything about the relationships between the people in this story is pure speculation on our part. It's guesswork and wish fulfillment.
> 
> This is a story. It is fiction... a fiction about creating fiction, about producing fiction, about the business of wonder and impossibility. It's a story about the people who create monsters and heroes, who summon forth giants and men who can fly. This is a story about professional wrestling.
> 
> -Tia

A full-staff meeting at the Full Sail arena was an odd thing any day, but particularly on a Tuesday, when the place wasn’t even set up for wrestling - or, at least, wasn’t usually set up for wrestling. Today, though, the ring stood at the center of the building, the stands opposite the Camera 1 position sparsely populated with talent, road crew, writers, and trainers Triple H was sitting on the top turnbuckle, facing them, and a screen - possibly one of the old _ridiculously expensive_ Jeritron 5000s - was set up in the center of the ring. Triple H looked, if anything, more perplexed than his audience when he got up to speak.

“Everyone here? Good. I got a call this morning to have you all here, because there’s an announcement coming in from Corporate up north. Steph wanted you to hear it here before it showed up on the news. I don’t know what it is myself, so if you don’t mind…” He slipped out between the ropes and walked down the stairs, taking a seat on the barricade and moving a little to the left to keep from blocking Enzo’s view of the screen.

A moment later, as if possessed by some dark spirit, it turned itself on. The identity of the possessing spirit was plainly obvious, and the specter spoke.

“I am Vincent Kennedy McMahon, CEO of World Wrestling Entertainment Incorporated. I took over this company from my father thirty-three years ago, and under my leadership it went from a regional promotion in New York to the international juggernaut it is today. I’m proud of what I’ve done… of what we’ve done, through hard work and more than a little evil genius. However, now, the time has come for a new day in the WWE.

“Effective January 1, 2016, I will be stepping down as CEO. The Board of Directors has already been informed, and elected my daughter Stephanie as my replacement. I will maintain a non-voting position on the Board, and take a job title as a consultant; however, my time will be devoted to my family and charitable pursuits. I leave WWE in my daughter’s capable hands.”

Then he stood up and walked away, leaving the camera rolling. It was more than a minute before Triple H returned to the ring to turn the Jeritron off.

“Well, then. Back to work.”

Which was, after a fashion, what they did - more quietly than usual, the trainers as much as the talent, until finally someone (no one would ever admit to being able to identify who) said what was on everyone’s mind.

“The king is dead. Long live the fucking king.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On Format. This story is being told as a series of individual vignettes, most of them fairly short, but some far longer. The longest we've written so far covers the entire finish of the Royal Rumble match of 2016.
> 
> We started with a fairly simple premise. "What if, right now, today, Vince McMahon announced his retirement? What would happen next?" So we went with that. We assembled a list not only of what talent is around and available, but who is out on injury and for how long, and who's where with their current pushes. So, basically, everything that has happened in WWE up to December 1, 2015 is entirely canon to this. We're outrunning reality at a fair clip, and TLC is airing in a little less than a week, so... we'll see just how far we diverge. Then again, Vince didn't announce his retirement last Tuesday.
> 
> I'll leave it up to you whether or not that's a good thing.
> 
> -Tia


	2. The Shane Train (December 3, Stamford)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On Original Characters. As this is a work primarily about a real company doing its real work, most of its cast is actual people. Writing from their viewpoint is... not something I'm exactly comfortable with. Their minds and souls are their own. Thus, new viewpoint characters needed to be brought in - eyes through which to see the workings of the company, hands to touch it, souls to experience it.
> 
> They are almost certainly a bit self-inserty, and will likely, at times, embody the very worst tropes of fanfiction - though I can promise you that none will ever change their name to match that of a carrion-eating animal and take to wearing leather pants at all times! I hope you can forgive us.
> 
> -Tia

“Half the people you meet when you walk in those doors are going to hate you. Three-quarters are going to be afraid of you. That’s how this business works,” Shane McMahon said, turned from the front seat of the nearly-empty 15-seater stretch limousine he’d commissioned to shuttle his new employees to the building he himself had no intention of entering. “Every chance to make the pie bigger, someone is going to fight you on, because they’ll be terrified that will mean their slice of it will be smaller. There’s reasons I left, but I want to make it better.”

“Shane,” said the woman seated near the mini-bar and currently finishing a Scotch on the rocks with the carelessness of someone who could afford to replace the Saville Row suit she was wearing, “how long have we known each other now - five years, isn’t it? Since CBI. Surely you must know by now that that’s how all business works - in management, anyway.” She was tall, lean and extremely attractive if your tastes ran to Arabian phenotypes, but the dark eyes and the practiced smile on that delicate bow of a mouth were all shark. “But it’s sweet of you to warn me.”

“Trust me, Nura, the throat-slicers in Jinan weren’t anything compared with professional wrestlers - or wrestling bookers,” Shane said.

“ _For me to win_ ,” the woman seated at the far back of the car, watching the early-winter falling leaves with an interested eye said, “ _Everyone else has to lose_. They’re still convinced it’s a competitive sport.” She was slender, with blue-green eyes, and very, _very_ Greek. “It’s bad enough that, in Japan, they’re actually rude to you when you tell them to lose. Sometimes.”

“I’m sure that somewhere their ancestors are stirring their ashes in shame,” Nura said in that same mild voice, a hint of amusement stealing into her expression. “I believe it’s now time for this amateur theatrical to get, as they say, on the road. Ladies and gentlemen, game faces. Don’t let them see you bleed.”

“I wonder if I can get the building at that price…” One of the men who had ridden over with them murmured as he glanced up at the “9.99” banner to the left of the company logo at the peak of the building. Nura threw a quick wave at him to silence him, but her lips twitched again. It might have been laughter.

The Greek woman watched the car drive away, Shane waving to them with the relief of a man who was slightly worried he would have to walk into the jaws of some smiling god as it went. Once it was out of sight, she squared her shoulders, murmuring, “I always wanted to come here, you know. When I was a little girl. Didn’t expect it to be like this.”

“Expectations are tricky things. They usually manage to get the better of us.” Taking point, Nura led the group through the main doors and into the lobby. She walked up to the receptionist’s desk, tapping the broad curve of it briskly for attention, and smiled. “Nura Abney. I believe you have badges and passes waiting for us.”

“Miss Abney… ah!” The receptionist forced a smile, passing them a stack of badges. “These will double as your passes. As per Mr. McMahon’s instructions, they will get you access to the entire building besides personal offices.”

“Very good.” Nura fielded the stack and passed them back to the Greek casually, with the complete confidence of someone sure her intentions would be clear without the need for conversation. “Some of these people won’t know where they’re going. See that they find their way, would you? Miss Pouli, if you’ll come along with me for the moment, I’d like you to sit in with my first meeting of the day.”

“Of course, Miss Abney.” The Greek had handed off the stack to one of the men, and fell into step alongside Nura comfortably. They went off toward the elevator together with the air of women accustomed to hearing the laments of their enemies, took the elevator to the top floor and went unchallenged (if not unsnubbed) by the executive receptionist on their way to the corner office with the shiny new nameplate: _Nura Abney, Senior Vice President for Sales and Partnership Marketing_. The door opened onto a private reception area, the chairs beautifully upholstered in leather and the receptionist’s desk a substantial thing of dark wood, presently occupied by a young woman of obvious Norman bearing, with brown hair and eyes. She smiled when she saw Nura approach. “Miss Abney. Kate Miller, your executive assistant. I have the notes from the last two meetings of the marketing team, and on your desk you’ll find a fruit bowl with the best Spanish limes I could find, as well as some musk limes… they’re a hybrid of lime and kumquat that I tasted while in New Orleans, and quite recommend.”

“I’ll have to try them. This is Eliza Pouli, shortly to be a senior member of the training staff down in Florida - you’ll be forwarding her calls to me directly when she makes them. It’s good that the two of you are having a chance to meet now. Miss Pouli, Kate comes very highly recommended to me by an old friend of mine from Oxford. He said I couldn’t do better. I take it that we haven’t yet been provided with a receptionist of our own?”

“No, Ma’am,” Kate said. “I picked someone for the job - a very polite young woman from Salinas - but Mr. Dunn scooped her up. I didn’t think that fighting a member of the Board of Directors for our receptionist would be a very good use for my first day. I’ve got two others I have my eye on, though.”

“I prefer not to be distracted by eye-candy at my front desk, so it’s just as well - a bright young gentleman of some sort will do better, I think.” Nura reached out a hand, promptly found it filled by the meeting notes, and smiled in satisfaction. “Could you contact Ms. McMahon-Levesque and let her know that I’m in the building and happy to arrange a meeting at her convenience? I’m going to go over these, try one of those musk limes and discuss a few things with Miss Pouli.”

“Of course,” Kate said. “And, if you’d like, I can try to find someone who will distract those you want distracted without distracting you.”

“A particularly lovely man, then,” Nura said in that same brisk, offhand voice and then proceeded into her office - bypassing the desk for the window and the afternoon light streaming in. “Do you want anything, Pouli?”

“I think I had plenty in the car,” Eliza said, leaning near the door. “Apart from Miss Miller, has a single person smiled at us since we walked into the building?”

“Were you expecting them to?” Fishing a pen out of her pocket, Nura started to make notes on the printouts in the folio - quick, sharp, savage little movements of the tip of the pen catching sparks of silver in the sunlight. “We’re the enemy, after all.”

“No, that’s not the point,” Eliza said, then smirked. “You’d think someone would at least try to lull us into complacency before stabbing us in the back.”

“That is a bit disappointing, isn’t it? Maybe they’ve poised my chair somehow. That would at least show some effort. A third-generation company - you’d think they’d show more grit.”

“Maybe they’ve gotten complacent,” Eliza said, making her way over to a chair and sitting. “This one doesn’t appear to be booby-trapped.”

“Pity.” Nura sighed and snapped the folio closed, dropping it onto the desk and picking one of the gold-green fruits from the bowl; a knife from her pocket snapped open before Eliza’d seen her take it out, and Nura cut the fruit apart and ate it methodically. “What are you going to need when you get down there?”

“Honestly? I think I’ve got the easy job,” Eliza said. “But I need people here to actually hear what people down there say. And I need to know they do, because what we’ve got here is a billion-dollar company that’s also small enough for voices on the ground to really matter.”

“Shane speaks highly of you. He has good taste in people, if not always in business. Kate will always take your calls, and what you tell her I’ll hear. And what I hear, you can expect McMahon and her husband to hear.”

“That’s all I can ask for,” Eliza said. “At least for now. Once I get down there, I’ll likely have a list of requests as long as my arm in a ten-point font.”

“Just put them in a single e-mail each week. I don’t like being spammed with addenda.” Nura discarded the last of the musk lime into the wastebin, sitting on the edge of her desk and favoring Eliza with a shark’s smile.

“I’ll do that,” Eliza said. “What about me? What can I do for you?”

“Your job. It sounds obvious, but it’s true - I didn’t come here to have shit from the Performance Center piling up on my desk every day, and I don’t want to have to take the word of people who’ve been part of the system here all along that things are going well. You’re my canary for that particular coal mine - callous, I suppose, but it’s the truth. Can you live with that?”

“It sounds pretty much like I expected,” Eliza said. “It’s basically what Mr. McMahon hired me to do. I’ve heard nothing but good things about what’s going on down there… which means that I’ll likely have very little I need to try to change, but the resistance to changing that little will be… well, intense.”

“If it didn’t need fixing, we wouldn’t be here. They don’t hire women like us to curate perfection. And regardless of what the wise old hands or the press say, I don’t like the numbers. A company with no competition and a scale of operation like this ought to be slugging like Bonds, not limping along in the ratings.” Nura wiped the knife carefully with a handkerchief, then pocketed it again. “Find the problem and solve it, or tell me how it needs to be solved.”

“I’ll find what’s down there,” Eliza promised. “And if the problem’s not at the Center, I’ll learn what I can about why people they get ready there don’t click later.”

“Good.”

 

 


	3. Tables, Ladders, and Boardrooms (December 13, Boston)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On Names. Virtually every time you hear a wrestler talk about another wrestler - even in out-of-character interviews, even in candid backstage shots - they use ring names. So... that's what they do here. I expect that Stephanie calls Triple H "Paul" at home, but this story isn't about the McMahon-Levesques at home. It's about the business.
> 
> So, yes, Nura's supposed to stand out a bit.
> 
> -Tia

“I think the employee entrance is this way…” Kate was surprisingly strong for her size, carrying the rather large set of papers and equipment Nura had packed effortlessly as she walked quickly through the talent parking lot at the TD Garden. “I’ve got a map of the inside of the venue memorized, and once we find the entrance I’ll have us oriented and we can get to your office.”

“I suppose there’s no point in expecting you to explain to me why we’re in Boston looking for an office.” Nura cracked open a bottle of water and surveyed the lot briskly. “Tall and bald by the Lincoln! Which way to the employee entrance?”

The man she was addressing looked up, and Kate stopped short. His eyes were blue, his pupils just a little too small, and even his friendly smile looked more than a little twisted. He pointed. “Right that way, miss.”

“Do you ever wonder,” Kate murmured, “if we were in fact hired by Oz, the Great and Terrible?”

“Thank you,” Nura told the giant fellow briskly, then turned and strode off for the entrance. Only once they were out of earshot, almost over her shoulder, did she answer Kate’s question. “His son and daughter, actually. The man behind the curtain’s gone a bit senile in his old age, and he’s beginning to mismanage the smoke machine.”

“Have you watched the product at all? Trust me, mismanagement of the smoke machine has been a constant from day one.”

“I watched a sample tape on the flight from London.”

Kate’s wisdom was obvious in the way she swallowed her response as they went through the door. “Let’s see… first left, then two doors down.”

“Thank you.” Nura walked briskly through the crowded hallways, eyes straight ahead in spite of the array of expensive equipment and garish ring gear, and only stopped when the door she wanted turned out to be blocked by a tall blonde in a startlingly skimpy outfit who was deep in conversation with an equally tall woman (indistinctly of color, possibly hispanic) in a leather jacket and heavy combat boots who was wearing an understanding expression on a face that looked more used to stern ones. “I love what we’re doing with me and Tyler, I really do, but… I miss working. How do I get them to let me work?”

“Figure out who you want to bump and why it’ll make good TV, then hound Creative until they give it to you or they come up with a better idea. Stand outside Regal’s door if you have to. Sure, some of the girls will hate you putting yourself forward like that, but you’ll get in the ring. Just make sure you’re willing to end up on your back if you pick someone with a push on,” the brunette warned her. “Hounding Creative will get you on TV, but it’s also a great way to end up counting the lights.”

“I don’t mind putting another girl…”

“Ladies,” Nura said mildly, not quite disguising her impatience, “I’m going to need that door.”

The brunette raised an eyebrow, looking Nura over without seeming to be in any particular hurry, then shrugged and waved the blonde toward her. “Nice suit. Planning to wear it ringside?”

“Not particularly.” Nura’s tone cooled noticeably, and she didn’t wait for Kate to open the door - she did it herself, walked inside and left it standing open for her assistant to take care of behind her. A laugh drifted in from the hallway, low and a little rusty, and then the door clicked shut and the room - impersonally furnished and decorated with sports memorabilia as it was - belonged to her. “I want to go over the data from last week again before the meeting, Kate, so laptop first. Handle the rest as you usually do.” Sitting down behind the desk, she finished the rest of the water and then threw the bottle into the wastebin with a little more force than was strictly necessary. “Isn’t there some sort of corralled area for workers at these sorts of events?” she asked, seemingly of no-one in particular.

Kate produced the laptop quickly, placing it on the desk so Nura could use it even as she plugged it in. “I don’t think so. They’re athletes, so I expect moving around helps keep them from stiffening up before the show. Prevents injuries.”

“Ah.” Nura pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose for a moment, breathed out whatever was troubling her and then addressed herself to the laptop with light-fingered efficiency. “That does seem reasonable. Inconvenient, but reasonable. Though it only makes pulling senior people from corporate here for meetings more inexplicable.”

“Triple H - Mr. Levesque - is here to be on the show,” Kate said. “Though I understand that they have meetings at venues even when that’s not the case. I don’t know.”

“Mmmm.” Even Nura’s disapproval was quiet - her boss was not at all a shouter, at least not yet, but she did seem to have a knack for getting her way regardless. The sharply-worded but polite memo was one of her favorite clubs, and she got a pretty good shot with it when she wanted to.

Some things, however, required the personal touch. Most of those things in Nura’s life at the moment appeared to revolve around Stephanie and Paul McMahon-Levesque, and so here they were at TLC. Backstage. Preparing for a meeting.

“Would you like to be ringside?” Nura asked, her voice mild but so unexpected it nearly made Kate jump anyway. “I didn’t think to ask earlier.”

“It would be rather difficult to do my job in the middle of a screaming crowd,” Kate said. “Though… if maybe I could get 15 minutes at some point to peek out from behind the curtain?”

“I expect that I can do without you for an hour or so, if you’d like. And if this is the sort of thing you enjoy, I’ll see that you have tickets when you want them for whatever seats you’d like. I believe in treating the people who work for me well,” Nura noted quietly. “After all, I can live without your services for a few hours on ten or so nights a year.”

“Thank you, Miss Abney, but we’ll wait and see how much you need me during the show,” Kate said with a quiet laugh.

“As you like.” Nura smiled - a brisk expression, but warmer than usual - and then got back to work.

The pre-show meeting was surprisingly short, with Mr. Levesque - everyone, even those who called him Paul or Mr. Levesque at Headquarters, called him Hunter or Triple H or Mr. Helmsley here - giving a quick briefing on what was going to happen during the show and what was to be said to any press that asked questions, then bouncing a few ideas for last-minute booking changes off specific people. Then she was back in her office, and Kate left to go watch from some hidden place not long after.

An hour into the show, there was a firm knock on the door.

“Come in,” Nura said without looking up from her report on demographics for sales of the 2K prestige game. “But if you’re press, the answer is no comment.”

The door opened, and Mr. Levesque was standing outside. “Miss Abney. A moment?”

“Mister Levesque,” she said, finishing a notation before she stood and waved him into the room. “The accommodations are a bit spare, I’m afraid, but you’re welcome to a chair and some water if you’d like it.”

“Actually, I’d prefer to walk and talk,” he said. “If you don’t mind.”

“I do, but not enough to refuse.” She locked the computer with a few keystrokes, then walked to the door and shut it briskly. “They don’t appear to have invested in locks, and I’ve set my assistant free to watch the action for a little while. Should I be flagging down someone from venue security?”

“Anybody touches your things, they’ll answer to me, so they won’t,” he said, starting down the hallway. “I was wondering what you thought of the show so far.”

“I couldn’t tell you. I’ve been busy.” She fell in next to him, matching her pace to the length of his stride, deliberately refusing to let him make her hurry while she took her watch out of her vest pocket and checked it, then snapped it closed and put it away again. “The team match should be going on any moment now, I expect?”

“It just started,” Mr. Levesque said, looking amused. “The New Day, the Usos, and the Lucha Dragons. I see you’re very focused on your job… what branding opportunities do you see, given each team as the winner?”

Nura resisted the urge to take a lecturing tone with the man who was -irritatingly - neither her peer nor her technical superior. It wouldn’t help. “The Usos are an established commodity, but with limited future growth potential - their merchandise sales have been flat for some time. The New Day is enjoying a considerable boost in popularity now, especially in ‘quirky’ merchandising - a sector we ought to be expanding in, by the way - and a win would be a strong opportunity to expand on that trend and cash in on it while it lasts. The Dragons lack a good branding message at the moment, and a win tonight would leave us poorly positioned to take advantage of any surge in popularity they might have. Until we have a clearer idea of how to promote and merchandise them, keeping them in contention but not too prominently is the safer option. That said, Lucha Libre is an underdeveloped market segment in our portfolio right now and we should be making more of an effort to clarify their branding.”

“I agree,” he said, nodding to a few passing hulks and John Cena. “I think there’s a fandom for each of them out there, and we’ve done a poor job building that fandom, especially with the Lucha Dragons. When we had Rey Mysterio, replicas of his masks were always big sellers.”

“Urban and southwestern rural Hispanic markets are a natural constituency for our brand. The rate of viewership and purchasing we’re registering in those demos is criminally low.”

Paul winced dramatically. “You wound me with truth. What are we doing wrong?”

“I’ve written your wife reports on this already, but the executive summary is that your cast is too white, too smug and too old. Your marketing is geared to white middle-aged men who were fans when you were still regularly in tights, your digital product is heavy on nostalgia, and your ‘cutting edge’ talk show is being done by a white skinhead from Texas who likes to talk about hunting and is as likely as not going to endorse Donald Trump. The list of what you’re doing right is shorter.”

“Only one here likely to vote for Trump is my father-in-law, and that’s as a personal favor to a man who’s going to lose badly,” Paul said. “Here we are.” They were at the curtains, where Kate was peeking out toward the crowd outside. An intense silence filled the space, followed by the roar of applause channelled through the slender space where the curtains concealed the backstage area from the crowd outside. “Take a look, because you’re never going to be able to fix the things you just laid out if you don’t understand what we do.”

Nura suppressed a careful sigh and the impulse to tell the man that she’d heard similar sentiments from men in industries from broadband to toy manufacturing, but she indulged him by easing in next to Kate and sharing her assistant’s view of the ring and the enormous dark mass of the ceiling and the crowd thundering on its feet while, in the ring, a set of shapes moved about. It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the bright lights that shone from the stage down toward the ring, and as her vision became completely clear, the smallest man in the match - Kalisto - landed on his feet after jumping over a clothesline from the largest. As the larger man came back off the ropes for another clothesline, Kalisto leapt backward, landing on one hand and bouncing up to wrap his legs around the taller man’s neck, twirling around his head and somehow - through some combination of impossible momentum and ineffable help from his opponent - launching the taller man in a flip over the top rope and onto his partners on the floor below.

The crowd, which watched the whole sequence - not more than two seconds - with bated breath - suddenly erupted once more in cheering, then, as Kalisto and his partner ran backwards toward the ropes on the opposite side of the ring, from G section, a chant broke out.

“Lu-cha. Lu-cha.”

They came off the ropes, moving full-speed toward their opponents, who were now brawling with the Usos outside.

“Lu-cha! Lu-cha!” The chant filled half the arena, now, echoing from the balconies. Kalisto and his partner launched themselves over the top rope, flipping fully so they were vertical at the moment they crossed the plane of the ropes.

“LU! CHA! LU! CHA!”

The Usos and the New Day looked up, all at once, to find the two small men approaching. In a scene resembling a gymnastics meet’s illegitimate child with a monster truck rally, all seven men crashed to the floor, and the chant faded to wordless screams of appreciation. Then, a second later, “This is awe-some! This is awe-some!”

“Well,” Nura said very softly, resting a hand on Kate’s shoulder and crooking a small smile. “Is it?”

“Kalisto did better things in NXT, but that was awesome,” Kate whispered.

“Wait for next month,” Paul said.

Kate turned, looked up at him, froze for a moment, then nodded. “I’ll look forward to it.”

“Mmm.” Nura tapped the heel of her boot against the floor lightly, murmuring the echo of the crowd’s now-abandoned chant under her breath. “Lucha... Lucha.... Hm. If you’ll both excuse me, I need to wake some people up.”

Without waiting for their reply, she turned on her heel and headed back for her office, doing conversions for timezones in her head. The trouble with an international media company was that the clock never seemed to work for you when you wanted it to. Well, there were solutions for that as well.

She was also going to need to learn something about Lucha Libre, or find someone to do it for her.

 


	4. And NEW Champion (December 13, Boston)

“Reigns on the ladder… Sheamus on the ladder…” Michael Cole’s voice went into overdrive on the small television Monroe Brewer kept in her mobile office, where she and William Regal sat watching the main event of the show. Brawls were breaking out all around the ringside area, with Alberto del Rio in a slugfest with Jey Uso, Dean Ambrose fighting Rusev, and Wade Barrett charging to the ring after leaving Jimmy Uso laying near-lifeless in the ruins of two tables. “Reigns only has one more step… Sheamus has two… Barrett in the ring…”

She knew how the match was going to end, but her breath still caught in her throat as Barrett grabbed Reigns’s leg, trying to tug him down for a powerbomb. Reigns grabbed the ladder with both hands.

“Headbutt from Reigns to Sheamus! Another headbutt!” Cole’s voice was breathless as Reigns was pulled down a step and Sheamus reached for the title. “Not like this!”

“Oh, it’s brilliant. Reigns should have listened when Triple H told him… the Authority always wins!” JBL was triumphant, his New York cockiness mixing perfectly with his Texas drawl.

Monroe smirked as the camera moved to the left. There it is. A man, much smaller than Barrett, Reigns, or Sheamus, with a head of vivid red hair and a beard that, if allowed to run free, would be as wild as those maintained by Daniel Bryan or the Wyatts. Lawler’s voice cut in. “Who’s that?” No. No, King. No. Stop it.

“That’s Sami Zayn!” Zayn grabbed Barrett, spun him around, whipped him hard into the ropes. “Sami Zayn just…”

“Quiet, Michael!” You could hear in JBL’s voice the way he was leaned forward over the table as Zayn charged into the corner. Blessedly, Cole took his partner’s advice for long enough for the maneuver to be completed before calling out, “HELLUVA KICK! Sami Zayn just kicked Wade Barrett’s head off!”

“That’ll ring your bell!” JBL laughed.

The camera was back on Sheamus and Reigns, trading blows on top of the ladder. “Right hand from Sheamus. Right hand from Reigns.”

“It’s all worth it. All for the biggest prize in the business,” JBL added.

Two more headbutts, and Sheamus toppled to the ring. Del Rio had broken away from Uso, but as he slid into the ring Uso grabbed his leg and pulled him back out, buying time for Reigns to unfasten the belt.

The bell sounded, and Lillian Garcia’s voice erupted from the small television. “The winner… and new Champion…” Regal leaned forward and shut the television off.

“It’s time to get to work,” he said to Monroe. “Have you heard back from John?”

“Everything is in order,” Monroe said as she stood, reaching for her cane. “We just have to make sure nothing gets broken for two weeks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On Roman Reigns. Roman Reigns tends to draw... mixed... reactions from wrestling fans, though live crowds of late (since Survivor Series) seem to have landed squarely at "We like him, but we like Dean Ambrose more." I've been a fan of his from the start, though... among big men, he's one of the best I've seen. His offense is explosive, he's got charisma, and he's just fun to watch.
> 
> On the microphone, he's... decent. He tends to match his material, which means that, usually, when there's a problem, it's with the material. He doesn't elevate a bad script, but he delivers a good - or even mediocre - one well. He's at his best when he can be either a silent ass-kicker or tear someone down with mockery (his "tater tot" promo on Raw was far too long, but well-delivered and landed well with the live crowd).
> 
> And, honestly, WWE has always made money best when booked around a big, powerful face. Hulk Hogan, Steve Austin, the Rock, John Cena... they've all drawn tons of money, and they're all big-man faces. Ratings and income are weakest under heel champions - Triple H's three-year run as almost-constant champion during the brand split is a great example of that. WCW knew how to book a heel champion (when it knew how to book anything at all, which was far too rarely); WWE works best with faces.
> 
> -Tia


	5. Vince's Last Hurrah (December 14, Philadelphia)

“They really do this. They really move like half the corporate office from one city to another every week,” Kate said as she finished unpacking Nura’s things in her new temporary office in the North Charleston Coliseum. “Oh… I got a message for you a few moments ago. A Monroe Brewer wanted to meet with you when you have time today… it just said she’d be ‘around.’”

“How very specific,” Nura sighed, contemplating the poor range of seating options available and settling for putting her feet up on a (doubtlessly overpriced) leather couch while she sipped tea from a thermos like a wandering barbarian. “I am going to have a conversation with the Chairwoman about this madness, Kate. I am going to have it soon. Two days of this and I’m already beginning to contemplate a hostile takeover. Tell me that our hotel accommodations tonight will at least be adequate?”

“I arranged them myself,” Kate said. “I talked to Triple H… Mr. Levesque… after the show a bit last night. I’m pretty sure I’m now Good Cop.”

“That was always going to be the case.” The couch was entirely too tempting. Nura found her phone in her pocket, took it out and checked the (already carefully curated by Kate, of course) inbox of reports and requests waiting for her. And the occasional personal message of course.... “Letters from cousin Safiir can be discarded on sight. Just never tell my mother I said so. How long until the staff meeting at which my presence is not strictly necessary?”

“An hour,” Kate said, pouring herself some water from the pitcher she’d brought in. Her cup was plastic and disposable, and she did not appear to approve. “Most of the talent hasn’t arrived here yet… actually, apparently, a couple have had trouble with rental cars.”

“I’m going to work for twenty minutes. Do you think you can find Ms. Brewer and bring her here by then? Half an hour should be more than enough time for whatever she needs.”

“I’ll do my best,” Kate promised, jumping to her feet. “Can I get you anything while I’m out looking?”

“An ounce of sanity in an uncivilized world,” Nura muttered as she got up from the couch to walk to her desk. “Also reservations for a late dinner somewhere edible.”

“Forwarding you my list of suggestions… now,” Kate said. “If one strikes your fancy, let me know. Otherwise, I’ll have your reservations made regardless within an hour.”

“Very good, Kate. Thank you.”

Twenty minutes was long enough to wade through the gibberish of the marketing data report on the Total Divas product and convince her that personnel changes were going to be needed in the marketing staff, and Nura was only peripherally aware of the door opening and closing while she finished her notes. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

“I can wait.” The voice was sweet, quiet, and very, very calm. “It isn’t as though they’ve thrown out the entire show and told me to start over again yet. Vince is going to wait until at least 4 to do that.”

Nura finished her note before she stood up and finally gave her attention to the woman sitting in one of the ridiculously poor quality chairs her temporary office was furnished with. Her visitor was a petite woman, with long brown hair and blue eyes. She wore a smart pantsuit, and carried a cane with a wooden duck as a handle, made of a long piece of wood with the bark still in place. She looked to be in her early thirties. “I’d heard rumors to that effect. I was hoping that they were exaggerated. You must be Monroe Brewer. What can I do for you?”

Miss Brewer passed Nura a folder. “Have you looked at the NXT section of wweshop.com?” Her gaze was… intense. Exceptionally intense.

“I have a review session scheduled for Wednesday, but I glanced over it briefly last night during a conversation with a friend about cross-marketing to the hispanic market.” Nura didn’t particularly enjoy being handed things, but she liked the look of Brewer so she opened the folder and flipped through it. Inside was a set of dossiers of talent - their ring names, their signature moves, writeups of their characters and stories in single paragraphs. At the bottom of each neatly-produced page, there was a handwritten note in a sharp script that matched Miss Brewer to a T. “ _No Merch_.” A few, rather than that line, had “ _One shirt?_ ”

“NXT is our hottest property right now. Not in terms of viewers - that’s Raw, and likely always will be, but in terms of buzz. NXT comes on and people talk. Your predecessors in this job responded to that by not responding to it at all. In the last week, I’ve had six different NXT talent come to me, tell me how much their merchandise royalty check for the month was, and ask why it wasn’t bigger. I want to see their eyes pop out when they get a check.”

Nura surveyed the list in the folder one more time and then handed it back to Monroe, smiling narrowly. _Oh, yes. I like this one._ “A memo is going to go from my office to the merchandising department informing them that you’ll be in touch. By Friday, I want you to have a memo to them - copy me on it - spelling out what you want. If I don’t have a report on my desk by a week from Monday spelling out a full and comprehensive merchandising plan with which you’re satisfied, that department is going to be looking for work by close of business. Anything else?”

“Live event in London on Wednesday. I’d like you to come out for it,” Monroe said. “It’s one of NXT’s biggest shows of the year.”

“I’m trying to spend more time in my own office, not less.” Nura didn’t try to keep as much of the briskness out of her voice as she might have. “Make your case.”

“They’re selling a different product in NXT, and it’s one a lot of us want to see what we do here look more like, because what they’re doing down there works. It brings in new viewers every week, sells out every venue it visits, and people talk about it positively constantly.” Monroe sighed. “The more people around here who understand what NXT is doing, the better we’ll do, I think. Plus, the guys there who make it are the ones you’ll be selling for the next fifteen years… I can’t think of a more efficient use of your time, since someone’s going to drag you to watch a show live some time in the next few weeks.”

“A point.” Nura’s lips compressed in displeasure at the thought, but she nodded. “All right. I’ll put it on my schedule - London is at least a favorite city of mine. I may even try to bargain regular attendance down there for not having to follow this ridiculous caravan all over the country. What is the obsession with being on site for the production in this company?”

“We’re a small company, and the bulk of the staff is on the road constantly. A fair bit of senior management doubles as on-screen talent. Hell, I’ve stepped out there a few times behind masks or curtains when they needed an extra warm body or decent rack,” Monroe said with a smirk. “And when the curtain’s going up in twenty minutes and half your main event blows a rotator cuff stretching, the last thing you want is a broken Internet connection between the venue and the decision-makers.”

“Mmm.” Nura tapped her fingers on her desk and smothered the urge to say what she really thought about that kind of myopia, then conjured up her professional smile and offered her hand. “Don’t hesitate to call my office or email me at any time, Ms. Brewer. I like your instincts.”

“I’ll do that,” Miss Brewer said, rising to her feet and taking her cane in her hand. “Thank you for your time.”

Brewer’s handshake was solid and strong, and Nura’s estimation of her rose another few points. “Good luck with the rewrites,” she said, then went back around her desk and let Brewer show herself out. The memo to merchandising took less than two minutes - a carte blanche could be a very easy thing to write - and that left time to hydrate from yet another cheap plastic water bottle and call her mother before she and Kate were off again.

The meeting was what Nura was starting to realize was fairly standard - a briefing about the creative direction of the show and the next few weeks. It went a bit long, because someone somewhere had put together one of WWE’s signature snappily-edited video packages on the career of Vince McMahon, and Kevin Dunn insisted on screening the entire thing to get final approval for airing it. It was… well, a rousing tribute for a man who was obviously not dead yet on account of being in the room, but it was very snappily edited.

Nura walked out near the back of the crowd, Kate at her heels, sweeping the hallway for Stephanie McMahon and picking her out talking with the brunette from Boston who’d commented on her suit. There was only an inch or two of height difference between them, but the well-worn leather jacket and combat boots couldn’t have made a sharper contrast with the pristine suit of the Chairwoman if they’d done it for effect. It instinctively irritated Nura to see talent talking so publically one-on-one with the head of the company, but entertainment businesses could be like that and there was no point burning capital on the problem now. She walked over instead - better to interrupt than stand around burning time.

“I’d like a moment, if you have it,” she said, addressing Stephanie with the directness she usually found was most effective with the people who hired her. “There are one or two things I’d like to clear up before they become more significant. If now isn’t a good time, Kate will be happy to make an appointment for later in the week.”

“You know, if we were in the ring, I think she’d go over the ropes for that one,” the brunette said, the low alto of her voice and the dry disdain in it grating on Nura’s nerves all over again.

“We need to be polite to my brother’s friends, Cynthia,” Mrs. McMahon said, then turned a smile on Nura that was only slightly predatory. “What do you need?”

Nura flicked a glance at ‘Cynthia,’ then deliberately moderated her tone. “I’ve been in touch with merchandising about NXT after taking a report from Monroe Brewer, and I wanted you to know that I’m expecting prompt action from them and that there may be consequences if I don’t get it. A full report will be in your inbox tomorrow. The other matter has to do with making the most efficient use of my time, and I’d rather not discuss it in front of the talent.”

The brunette’s rusty laughter was as irritating as the rest of her.

“Very well. Cynthia, I’ll meet you at the office… if you see Hunter, could you let him know?”

“Copy,” Cynthia said, straightening up and giving Nura one more infuriating smirk before she walked off down the hallway. It would be unprofessional to find a pretext for having her fired or her merchandise squashed (presuming she had any to begin with), but Nura indulged the thought for a moment anyway before getting back to business.

“Unless there’s more to the traveling meeting show than I’ve seen in the last two days, I’d like to attend remotely - I’ll get a good deal more work done in my office than I will traipsing from one hotel to another.” She kept her body language straight and in command but not confrontational, meeting Stephanie’s eyes and adopting the tone of someone trying to give their client good but perhaps unwelcome advice. “I’m aware that there’s a certain hazing period where I’m expected to prove I can engage with the company culture, but I wasn’t hired for this and my time isn’t cheap. I would like to begin attending events regularly at Full Sail, however - it’s been brought to my attention that it would be an efficient investment in future properties for me to focus what time I do spend out of the office there, and it strikes me as good advice. Beyond that, I’d prefer not to travel more than is strictly necessary.”

“I’ll call Matt and have him clear an extra office for you at the Performance Center,” Mrs. McMahon said, a small smirk on her face. “I think that NXT will be a better use of your time than Raw, most weeks. But not being here, you’re going to miss a lot of the moments when decisions are made… not the briefings but the conversations in hallways, the moments when… wait a moment.” One of the members of that three-man tag team was approaching, the one with the trombone. He was already dressed in ring gear, and he stopped when he saw Mrs. McMahon. Instead of saying anything, he walked backward a few steps while playing _When the Saints Go Marching In_. Mrs. McMahon applauded, then called out to him, “Do that on your way down to the ring, when you’re escorting the League of Nations!”

The man winked and walked away, and Mrs. McMahon returned her attention to Nura. “A lot happens in the hallways before a show, and you’ll miss it if you’re tucked away in Stamford or Orlando. But my brother trusts your judgement, and I trust his.” A beat, and she called after the man with the trombone, “Get Kofi and Big E to sing it for Sheamus, see what he thinks!”

“Frankly, I’m not getting much accomplished in the hallways regardless.” Nura allowed herself a quick, sharp little smile - one woman in the C-suite to another. “With due respect, it’s a hell of a way to run a railroad.”

“I wouldn’t trade it for the world,” Mrs. McMahon said with a genuine grin. “It’s crazy, everything about this business is crazy, but it’s home and it’s in my blood. Now… I need to go get ready to be the entire audience’s evil stepmother and say terrible things about my father for fifteen minutes on live television. He insists.”

“Crazy,” Nura echoed, shaking her head, and then turned away to head down the hallway again. She waited until she was back in her improvised office and had a fresh bottle of water before she turned around and fixed Kate with a probing look. “The woman with McMahon when I went up to her - who is she?”

“Cynthia Ramirez.” Kate already had the Wikipedia page open by the time Nura finished the question, checking it to make sure her memory was correct. “No championships, but a fair bit of popularity. She’s worked matches with middleweight men as well as the women, and challenged Ryback for the Intercontinental Championship once. Third woman to compete in the Royal Rumble, and has the most eliminations of any woman. But her usual on-screen role is as a bodyguard and enforcer for the Authority.” She shut the phone’s screen off. “She rides with them.”

Nura pursed her lips. “Pull her contract and her current merchandising for me and put it in an email. You can attend the show tonight if you like - I’ll be working, but everything I need should be on my server.”

“I’ll have my phone on my person and check it regularly,” Kate promised as she assembled the data.

“You always do.” Nura settled in behind her desk, logged into the computer and scanned the top half-page of her inbox. “Enjoy the show.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On Cynthia. Okay, so Cynthia is an exception to our "Everything until December 1, 2015 is canon" rule. But, at the start of this, we realized we needed four viewpoints - one in management (Nura), one in creative (Monroe), one in training and the Performance Center (Eliza), and one on the roster (Cynthia). At that point, it makes more sense for the viewpoint on the roster to already be established - if low-tier - going in, so there we are.
> 
> Cynthia and Monroe both originated in another wrestling story Moirae and I worked on. That one's not on AO3. It's not anywhere.
> 
> -Tia


	6. Bada Boom, Tiredest Guys in the Room (December 17, Orlando)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On NXT. NXT is, quite frankly, the best. It's held my interest in wrestling over much of this last year. While entire libraries could be written about the weaknesses of the booking on the main roster (and I've written a fair bit on that matter on my Tumblr), NXT is reliably a great show.
> 
> I think the most visible way in which it's great is the opening of the show. Both Raw and NXT usually start with a cold open telling what's been happening over the past few weeks in one or more major storylines. Both Raw and NXT then go to a theme song. But what happens after that is vastly different - on Raw, you come to the arena with one or more wrestlers standing in the ring. They then talk through to the next commercial break, and during that talking somehow the show gets a main event (in kayfabe, does the Authority just come to town with all their wrestlers without a main event?). Twenty minutes after the show starts, you finally get a match. Usually. Sometimes it's longer.
> 
> After the theme song on NXT, the vast bulk of the time, the bell rings, someone's entrance song starts to play, and the ring announcer (isn't JoJo great?) says those all-important words, "The following contest is scheduled for one fall..." Then, on a wrestling show, people wrestle.
> 
> That this is a refreshing change from Raw, Impact, and Nitro when it existed kinda says everything, doesn't it?

Even Mojo was dragging a bit.

He’d become Eliza’s favorite workout partner because of his combination of simply unlimited energy and understanding that he was unique in having it, so when he was tired she knew it had been a very, very long few days. Shows daily through the tour, the big show at the end, then a long flight back to Florida… she was amazed she was still standing. Still, the small group made their way into the Performance Center, and Eliza locked the door behind them.

“Think Albert’ll give us tomorrow off?” Colin Cassady took a seat on the steps of one of the practice rings, dropping his gear heavily to the floor.

“Think Bull’ll be booked to go over Reigns at the Rumble?” Eliza asked with a quiet laugh. She’d taken her place on one of the weight benches. “About the same chance.”

“It could happen,” Bull murmured from the corner.

“I killed, right?” Nhooph Al-Areebi - Aliyah to her new fans - was still high as a kite in spite of not having had a television debut yet - she’d slept most of the plane ride after a hectic event schedule and woken up giddy. She’d latched onto Eliza as the person to share her joy with, for reasons passing understanding, and so here she was. “I totally killed. I killed in England!”

“You killed,” Eliza said, offering her a weak smile. “Really, you killed. And I’m crazy happy for you. That I’m not jumping up and down with you about it needs to be blamed on the fact that if I stand up right now I might die.”

“Wimp.” A voice she wasn’t expecting - a low, rich alto with a hint of military clip to it - came from the back of the workout room, followed after a moment by Cynthia Ramirez in her usual workout gear - heavy jeans, combat boots and an Underarmor shirt, one of the few people in the workout room who got away with not wearing Tapout stuff - and wearing her usual half-amused smile. “Aren’t you supposed to be setting a good example, Pouli?” Without waiting for an answer, she cracked a grin and threw Nhooph a thumbs-up. “Dead to rights, Aliyah. Regal sent video - do it just like you did Monday every time.”

“Yes, drill sergeant!” Nhooph giggled. It was a joke with the girls that Cynthia mentored, one that the older woman always met with a wry smile and a shrug, but it fit - a lot of superstars and divas came through the Performance Center in a week, but Cynthia put real effort into being a mentor and she worked her charges just as hard.

“You’re here late, Ramirez,” Eliza said, laying back on the weight bench with a grunt. “Planes always do a number on me… everything okay up top?”

“Old man went off to the boneyard just fine. The boss is off road until Monday, spending time with the kids, and I’ve been dying for gym time. I flew in yesterday. Figured nobody’d be around to watch me sweat tonight. Shows you what I know.” Stretching her well-muscled shoulders, Cynthia dropped into a crouch next to the bench and elbowed Eliza lightly in the ribs. “Can’t sleep here, Top.”

“Not sleeping,” Eliza said. “Just resting a few minutes before heading up to check my email and do some paperwork. You’re sleeping.”

“Uh-huh.” Cynthia chuckled down in her throat, then stood up and vanished out of Eliza’s line of sight. Came back into view a few minutes later, hauling a cooler, and cracked it open with a grin. “It’s five somewhere, boys and girls. Drink up and don’t leave your bottles lying around.”

“Remember,” Eliza said as she sat up, grabbing a bottle from the cooler. “Drinking is strictly off-limits in the Performance Center.” She smirked as she opened her bottle, wider as those in the room followed suit - first Mojo, then Bull, then Alexa, finally down to Nhooph.

“Damn straight. Bottoms up,” Ramirez toasted them all, knocking back a long swallow of her Corona and grinning fiercely. “So, I hear the Wicked Witch of Numbers was in the crowd for the show. She see any action, or spend it on her phone?”

“She watched the whole thing,” Eliza said. “I think she cracked a smile once or twice. Do I need to remind you she’s actually my friend?” She swallowed a fair bit of her beer.

“There wasn’t a person in the house not screaming for the Realest Guys,” Enzo said.

“She wasn’t screaming for the Realest Guys.” Eliza laughed.

“That settles it. She isn’t human.” Cynthia toasted Enzo with a wink, then ruffled Eliza’s hair as she stood up. “And there’s no accounting for some people’s taste.”

Eliza grabbed another beer. “Speaking of no taste… where in Florida’s forsaken wastes did you manage to find this beer?”

“I like it,” Bull said from the corner.

“I’ve never had beer before,” Nhooph piped up. “Does it always taste like this?”

“Pretty much,” Cynthia chuckled. “You get to like it after a while.”

Cassidy swirled what was left of the beer in his bottle contemplatively, then knocked it back. “So no shit, Ms. Pouli, what’s she like? You gotta give us somethin’.”

“She’s business,” Eliza said. “Through and through. And she’s been hired to make the company work better, which means to have every single one of us make more money more often while Trips and Steph find more reasons to smile and the stockholders stay quiet and let us work. She’s also exactly as good at the job as you’d expect her to be given that she’s got the attitude she’s got and nobody’s ever canned her for it.”

That got her a few chuckles, though Cynthia’s weren’t among them. There was something narrow and cold in Ramirez’s eyes that Eliza hadn’t seen there before, something that reminded her for some reason of the fact that Cynthia’d been overseas with the army. But the other woman didn’t say a word, just cracked another beer and finished it all in one long go before dropping the dead bottle back into the cooler. “We got business of our own to do in the morning, people, so you better find your beds. I hear Albert’s planning a run-til-you-drop just for all you stars.”

The chorus of groans that filled the room was something to hear - even Mojo joined in - and Eliza laughed. “You heard the lady, folks. Finish your drinks, do your business, get home. I’ll get the trash out on my way out.”

The kids cleared out, obediently if reluctantly (and quite possibly not all to their own beds), and eventually there was only the quiet clink of bottles as Cynthia moved around collecting the last orphans and dumping them into the cooler. The evidence disposed of, she snapped it closed and walked over to offer Eliza a hand and a crooked smile. “You look like hell yourself, top. Not as young as we used to be, huh?”

“You said it,” Eliza said as she let Cynthia help her to her feet. “It wasn’t the shows or the training that did me in, either. It was the sitting.”

“Travel is the curse of the modern world, especially when you don’t get to drive.” Cynthia patted her shoulder before letting her hand go. “Speaking of which, you gonna make it back to your place or you want a lift?”

“I could probably get home on my own, but yeah. A lift would be good. Do I really look that bad?”

“Maybe not to them. They haven’t been around long enough to know what somebody about to fall on their ass looks like.” A fierce little grin flashed over Cynthia’s face as she grabbed the cooler and hefted it effortlessly in spite of the weight. “C’mon, top. Let’s get you to your rack.”

“You really don’t like her,” Eliza said as she locked the door behind them.

“Abney?” Cynthia carried the cooler over to her big four-door F150 and threw it in the back, then popped the doors and vaulted up into the cab. She waited for Eliza to get in and started the engine, even backed out before she finally answered. “I met a lot of suits in the Army who lived and breathed efficiency, pushed paper back to the Pentagon. I never saw one of them get their hands dirty in an engine or bloody with a GSW, and they couldn’t wait to get their asses out of the zone. They didn’t love the service, just wanted to make rank. Abney’s the same thing without the uniform.”

“Shane showed me numbers before I came in… wanted to make sure I knew what I was getting myself into,” Eliza said. “A few weeks ago, Raw hit its lowest rating since Nitro was kicking its ass and Vince was shopping for good bankruptcy lawyers and Montrealing folks to get out of contracts. They thought the Network would replace pay-per-view revenue in a quarter; it took more than a year, and it’s been more expensive than they thought. Merchandise is down, and what merch is selling is getting more and more concentrated in a few guys. Cena. Rollins. The legends. Actually… that’s it right there. Cena. Rollins. The legends.” Eliza glanced out the window. “Nobody knows how this business works. That’s something Shane told me, and that I saw in Japan and England. Nobody knows what draws, really. There’s one guy who came closer than anybody else to knowing, and he was still wrong more than he was right, still threw away fans he needed to keep, and he’s been on a string of losing bets for near on a decade now. And he’s leaving at the end of the year. WWE’s not in danger of dying… but if something doesn’t get fixed, we’re going to lose a lot of folks. Bull. Mojo. About half the women at NXT and a few from the main roster. Triple H took a risk down here almost as big as the one Vince took in 1985 at the Garden. Shane sent her in there to make sure that doesn’t happen… same reason he sent me down here.”

“You, I get. Maybe I don’t love having an outsider come in like the cavalry, but you’ve been in the business a long time. You know what the hell you’re doing. Abney doesn’t even like wrestling - you can tell by the way she doesn’t even look at folks back stage, like they’re moving furniture. We might as well be making widgets to her.” Cynthia drove with a brutally efficient economy of motion, eyes on the road, and even with her voice smoking with anger she didn’t lose any of her focus. No pick up in speed, no rougher handling - everything done just so. It was completely typical of her, the same way she worked in the ring; dead on the mark, every time.

“All that’s true… though when I talk to her, I smell a sleeping mark. Somewhere in the depths of her soul,” Eliza grinned. “Someday, I will make sure she feels true joy again, and when that happens I’ll just happen to have Flair/Steamboat queued up on something with a screen.”

Cynthia’s laughter broke the tension down noticeably as she pulled off into Eliza’s subdivision. “If you can find a soul in there to work with, you’re a better woman than me. It just pisses me off, I guess. Plus the way she talks to the boss - you know she doesn’t even take shit to the king first, just goes right to the top whenever she feels like it?”

“World she comes from, that’s how you get things done. Then again… same thing in our world. Best way to get what you want has always been to bend the promoter’s ear.”

“Powerplay bullshit,” Cynthia growled under her breath, working the gearshift and the wheel to get herself pulled in. “Thing I liked best about things since I came in was how little backstage politics there was going on. I don’t love the thought of Abney infecting the system with that shit again.”

“What I’m hoping is she finds a way to make the business better while not making us all feel like we’re hanging out in Atlanta with Russo and Nash,” Eliza said, shaking her head. “I did make her read a few things about that. Stuff Bret wrote.”

“Well, at least she’s impartial in her not giving a fuck. So far.” Cynthia cut the engine, rested her hand on the wheel and gave Eliza a long look. “Hope she works out for you.”

Which was another way of pointing out whose star Eliza’d hitched her wagon to, but at least a slightly more subtle one than The Shane Train fliers in her locker.

“Hey, other than my paycheck and loving this business, I’ve got no dog here.” Eliza shrugged. “I want to see everybody get rich, and I got picked because my itch to main event things was satisfied back in Japan.”

Cynthia’s lips twitched, but whatever she was thinking she kept to herself. “You getting out or am I coming in?” she asked in the roughly joking way she had that made you wonder if it actually was a joke.

“Unless you need some coffee or something, I guess I’m getting out,” Eliza said, opening the door. “Thanks for the ride.”

“Any time, top.” Cynthia gave her a wave, waited until she’d closed the door and walked up to her own, then started the truck again and pulled out smoothly.


End file.
